


I Couldn't Say It To Your Face

by jamdropsmarblecakes



Series: Do You Copy? [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamdropsmarblecakes/pseuds/jamdropsmarblecakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small 'fill in the blank' series of short chapters. A lot of people were curious about a few things in Mission Critical, so I thought this would answer a few questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Almost Grown

**Author's Note:**

> This short chapter is an insight into Felicity's childhood. Momma Smoak and an OC sister will make an appearance in another chapter.

Felicity Smoak grew up a military brat and decided during the winter of her thirteenth year that she had ZERO intention of ever raising a military brat of her own. 

Take this two ways. She would never work in the military and she would certainly never have children. 

Her parents went through a very messy divorce around the same time she made this decision for her future self. The divorce was hostile and she had no other choice than to live with her mother. Her father would often be deployed for two years at a time, so her and her older sister, along with their mother, moved to Paradise.

Paradise, Nevada.

It was only a fifteen minute drive to downtown Las Vegas where her mother, and eventually her sister, would work at a handful of the casinos along the strip.

For the next four years, Felicity was determined to get the hell out of Paradise. It was no utopia. She practically raised herself, what with her mother and sister always working, never home. 

In retrospect, they were working for her. To put food on the table for her. To help her get out of what they felt was far from El Dorado too. She would never get over the guilt she felt for hating them in those teenage years. They were, after all, looking after her.

She felt bad leaving them behind in Paradise. But she had packed up her few possessions in a newly purchased twenty year old car and watched her teary eyed mother wave goodbye to her in the rear-view mirror.

“MIT, here I come,” she had muttered, flexing her fingers on the steering wheel.

It had been a weird four years. Cambridge was an interesting place. It changed her, not in the same way that Afghanistan would in the future, but there was that awkward emo phase that seemed like such a good idea at the time. 

There was first loves, first heartbreaks, a whole lot of firsts. Good and bad. Fun and trying.

Computers were always Felicity’s first love. Another first. Everything just made sense in the world of IT. Mysteries were solved when the right code as used, if the input was correct. 

She worked hard to repay her mother, not in money, but in pride. Felicity Smoak wanted her mother to be proud of her, to understand how thankful she was that her mother had slogged through hours and hours in six inch heels, refuting unwanted advances from men who probably shouldn’t have been making advances in the first place. 

The day she dyed her hair and pulled her nose ring out was the same day she sent off her application to the navy.

Two months shy of finishing her degree, she received an acceptance letter. 

And the rest, as they say, is history.


	2. Up Against the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Superbly sorry for the lack of updates. I started house hunting for a place closer to uni for next year and found one quicker than I expected. It's been a bit of a whirlwind signing the lease and buying furniture and the like. 
> 
> I don't think I have done the contents of this particular chapter justice, but I am relatively happy with it. From the little we've seen of Sin, I feel like _maybe_ I captured her okay.

“This is bullshit,” Sin shook her head, her helmet rattling against the buckles of her tactical vest.

She’d just past her buddy, Private Max Howell, as they patrolled a stretch of road just outside of their base, Geronimo.

Foot patrol was not something that was common nowadays, it was too dangerous. 

There’d been too many near misses. With drive by fire, buried IEDs, and close quarter combat that required hand to hand fighting, over the use of guns and grenades.

Just last week, Sin was forced to use those hand to hand combat skills to fight off some crazy guy who had come at her, the intent to kill in his eyes.

He’d put his hands around her throat, and that was about all she could in return. She was strong, yes, but she was short. This guy had long arms. 

She’d managed to get the upper hand, somehow. In another mystifying turn of events, she was able to swing her gun to her front and slam the butt of it in his face.

It was a close enough call, if you asked her.

She’d been ordered into counseling, but shrugged it off. It was a risk that every single one of them had to face. Sin assumed the nightmares and over-alertness would disappear eventually.

Her platoon were due to bump back to Dubai for a month off. She was crossing all her fingers and toes that her parents would be able to get time off work and meet her there. 

“Just think,” Max spoke up, as if reading her thoughts, “a few days from now, we can be lazing by a pool in Dubai, frozen margaritas in hand.”

“Looking forward to it,” she called over her shoulder.

What she didn’t tell Max was that she was planning on getting out. Well, out of the Army, into the Navy. Roy had been trying to convince her that it was the life. Even the land postings were never too bad, always near the water. 

It had its appeal. She’d be close to Roy and Thea, two of her closest friends. A posting to Jacksonville meant she’d be close to her grandma. Grandma Stanton was a force to be reckoned with, but was getting frail in her old age. Sin thought that a land posting wouldn’t be so bad if it meant she got to hang with Grandma. 

“Do you think the SEAL teams from Murphy will be bumping back too?” Max called. 

They were a fair distance apart now and she had to raise her voice to reply.

“Why?”

“I hear,” Max started with a wry smile on his face, “that they’ve got a comms chick working with them.”

Sin turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

“A girl, a woman, a sailor of the female persua-”

“I know what a chick is, Max,” she cut him off. “Point is, I’m a chick too.”

Max’s mouth opened and closed as they neared each again.

“Asshole,” she huffed under her breath, giving him a slight shove with her shoulder. 

“Sin,” Max tried to reason, “I’m sorry, I just, shit, hear me out.”

Sin waved a hand as if to day “never mind.” She continued walking away from Max, who was still trying to plead with her.

The high revolutions of an old vehicle made her turn around.

“Max,” she drew his name out, swinging her rifle up and jamming it against her shoulder. She had it trained on the corner, waiting for the threat to turn onto the road to the base.

“You see anything?” Max called, slowly walking backwards to join Sin.

“Nup,” she breathed, squinting through her scope.

Max nudged the comms system on his shirt.

“Geronimo Tower, we’ve got a possible incoming vehicle traveling at high speed towards the south entrance from east, you got eyes?”

“Negative,” came the reply.

“Alright, stay alert,” Max replied, resigned to the incompetence of the watch tower.

“Wilco.”

The speeding car was getting louder now. Which only meant it was getting closer. 

There it was, it turned the corner, turned right towards them. The revving engine picked back up again and the white sedan was kicking up an impressive amount of dirt.

“You good?” Sin asked, not taking her eyes off the moving target.

Max turned his head away, without moving his eyes, and spat nervously. “Bring it.”

A long barreled gun appeared out the window.

“Tower, incoming hostiles,” Max spoke.

“Roger, seen.”

“Well, Private,” Max cleared his throat and chanced a glance at Sin, “Bend over, prepare to receive pineapple.”

Sin chuckled good-naturedly, a small, effervescent ‘harrumph’. 

 

The two soldiers in the watch tower would abandon their post a few seconds later. 

They charged down the stairs, across the base and towards the south entrance with desperate speed.

They hollered for help, armed and medical. They had their guns drawn as they pushed open the gates.

It was all over too soon. They weren’t quick enough.

The late model, white sedan was long gone, but their dust trails were still evident. 

Private Max Howell was face down in the dirt, he’d fallen where he was the hit. The seventh bullet had put a sizable hole in his face, his helmet stopping its exit.

They thought they could save Private Cindy Stanton, but the bullet that tore through her trachea ensured irreversible damage. 

They weren’t to know that at the time.

Nor were they to know that her last mortal thoughts, as she drowned in her own blood, as she realised she was dying, as the Afghan sun danced high above her, were of Roy and Thea.


	3. If You're Missing (Come On Home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Expecting Daddy Diggle for you!

There was really nothing that could ease the guilt in John Diggle's mind over missing so much of his wife's pregnancy. 

Short of going AWOL, there was nothing he could do.

Lyla was good enough to send regular pictures of her burgeoning belly, a beautiful smile always lighting her face. The glow from her pregnancy only added to the light radiating from her.

At the request of one of her cousins, she’d taken to standing in front of a blackboard for the pictures. Each photo told the viewer how many weeks she was. It was a pleasant reminder for John because, with all the numbers he’d been running for Operation Sea Charger, he occasionally forgot. 

Another reason to feel guilty.

To be fair, sometimes even Lyla forgot. She had relayed a story to John about how she’d turned up to her 24 week scan a week early.

Sometimes he wouldn't get to check his emails for a couple of weeks. Operations and surveillance would deny him the opportunity to utilise the computers during the day. 

When he did eventually get to opening up his emails, there'd be three or four pictures of her belly, the occasional ultrasound thrown in, and he had to swallow tears as he marvelled how the little jelly bean was transforming into an identifiable human being. He could count all five fingers on the baby's left hand in the last ultra sound picture.

Lyla was going to prenatal classes by herself. Something that John would never forgive himself for. He wondered how many side eyes she was getting from other mothers.

"Oh that poor woman," they would be saying, "in this all by herself."

He wondered if they made up their own little stories. 

For those not in the know, those who never bothered to ask, it’d be "War hero husband, taken far too soon." For those who knew John and Lyla Diggle their story would paint him in a bad light. "Beret who took this deployment in spite of the fact his wife was pregnant."

He'd be labelled with many a critical name, selfish, greedy, uncaring. She'd be labelled strong, persevering, the face of life as the wife of a Special Forces Sargent. 

_Now if any of them actually knew the ins and outs of our relationship_ , John thought as he ran the perimeter of the base, _they would know it was one forged facing the horrors of war. Together._

So sometimes it reflected anger and frustration, sometimes to the point of I-would-push-you-off-a-cliff-if-I-didn’t-adore-you-so-much.

But it was full of friendship, affection, tenderness. Love. And their love had made a baby. A baby _girl_ if that morning’s email had been anything to go by. 

A girl. A teeny tiny little girl. Theirs.

Felicity was really the only one who he felt okay enough with to talk about it. The boys on his team, while a few of them had expecting wives and girlfriends, were very much there to do the job. They weren’t particularly keen on the ins and outs of each others experiences. 

Oliver had a thousand different things going on. He was in charge of the entire operation. There was a lot of planning, scrapping of plans and replanning, avoiding his feelings for Felicity. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss family with Diggle.

Whether or not Felicity was willing to admit it, that girl was clucky as hell. She had managed to time her turn on the computer around his. She was always there, ready for him to turn to her and say, “Smoak, look at her, look at them.”

And Felicity would scoot her chair over to peer at his screen. She’d forgo her time answering emails from friends and family to listen to him ramble about all the things that Lyla had told him about in the most recent email.

The worst feeling though, was knowing that he wasn’t going to be there for the birth of his first child. To hold Lyla’s hand. To have her yell at him. He wouldn’t be there for the first two months of his daughter’s life. More if it was decided they were needed here for longer, if it took more time than originally planned to capture or kill Merzad.

He had to stop, bending over to put his hands on his knees. Smiling and crying at the same time as he thought back to the phone call he made to her two days ago.

_“I feel like an M1-A1,” Lyla moaned._

_“You don’t look like one,” he smiled at the most recent picture she’d sent him._

_“No uterus, no opinion, John Diggle,” she warned._

_“What’s your latest craving?”_

_“Harissa yoghurt.”_

_“With meatballs?” John asked apprehensively._

_“No,” he could imagine Lyla shrugging, “just by itself.”_

_“That’s, um, different.”_

_John laughed to himself, breathing out heavily._

“Oooh, gee,” he hooted, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his head. 

“You good, sir?” Private Josh Holliday went tearing past him.

“All good,” John called after him.

He thought Lyla was supposed to be the one with the crazy emotions.


	4. By Any Rules

“Heath!” Felicity screamed, “move! Now! Oliver, stay wide!”

“Hey!” Oliver protested, pulling up short, “I give the orders, Smoak!”

Felicity stopped, her arms swinging by her sides, her torso slick with sweat. A spontaneous SEAL Team 1 versus SEAL Team 4 soccer game had started after lunch and there was never a chance that it was going to be fun. From kick off, it’d been ferociously competitive, no one backing down from anything.

In the age old skins versus shirts coin toss, Oliver’s SEAL team had gotten skins. 

The Lieutenant had opened his mouth, protesting that they couldn’t go skins because of Felicity, only to be met by a flourish of activity as she pulled her shirt off.

“Should be enough skin to differentiate,” she nodded, adjusting the twisted strap of her black sports bra with a “snap”.

“Yeah!” Roy held his hand up for a high five.

She laughed, throwing her head back, admiring all the toned torsos that were being revealed in the wake of her undressing.

The sun was belting down and, ten minutes in, everyone was panting, beads of sweat running down their arms, their chests, their backs.

SEAL team 4 were beginning to lament their decision to go shirts.

“You may give the orders on ops, sir,” chimed Felicity, “but everyone is currently listening to me.”

The game continued, the rest of the boys running up the temporary field, goals marked by crates of MREs they rolled from the back of the chow hall.

“Yes, because,” Oliver puffed, gesturing to her.

“Any one with boobs can get a frat boy to do anything,” she shrugged.

“I was a frat boy,” he replied, looking a little hurt.

“I rest my case,” she clicked her heels together and raced up the field to high five the boys on her team, Roy having just scored a goal.

“All right,” Diggle called from the shade, “take five minutes. It’s 107 degrees in the sun today, grab some water, some electrolytes.” 

While the rest of his team huddled to talk tactics while they guzzled Lucozade, Oliver went and sat down with Diggle.

“You okay, man?” Diggle asked.

“Yeah, I just, my knee is bothering me,” he stretched it out, hearing a pop and a click.

“Sit it out,” Diggle shrugged.

“Yeah,” Oliver didn’t sound too convinced but, after the five minute break, waved regretfully at Felicity, motioning that he’d hurt his knee.

He watched as the game kicked off again, dust thrown up the burst of activity that followed. 

Heath managed to take control of the ball and made a break up the side. Felicity was a meter behind him and a meter in field. Oliver chuckled to himself, realising the two of them had fallen into an offensive manoeuvre that they used on operations. 

Nearing the makeshift goal, Heath flicked the ball in front of Felicity who took a few long strides and then belted it home.

“Yeah!” Heath exclaimed.

Felicity slowed to a stop and then spun around. Oliver watched as the most triumphant smile spread across her face. 

“Hell yeah, we got this!” Felicity shouted, throwing her arms in the air, her hips pushing forward. This action made all the muscles in her stomach and torso ripple and Oliver felt himself twitch. 

Heath ran to Felicity, both of them laughing. His 6’5” frame picked up her 5’4” frame, squeezing her tightly. He placed her back on the ground gently.

Oliver grumbled and Diggle breathed an “easy” to try and placate him.

Heath and Felicity had everyone laughing now, the two of them sparking a striking rendition of the running man. Heath’s stamina failed first and he threw his head back, laughing and clapping, before running up behind Felicity and giving her bum a light tap.

Oliver stood up, “Ramirez, sub off!” 

“Oliver,” Diggle’s voice was laced with warning. 

“Sir!” Felicity waved him over.

“What's the plan?” he asked, joining the huddle. 

"You got anything, sir?"

"Well, I was thinking, if Heath leads, you follow him, and I'll slip in to y- _behind you,_ ," he rushed to correct himself.

Felicity froze and Heath laughed, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He lent in to whisper something in her ear.

“We’re going to run the same play as before, seemed to work,” Felicity explained, “except, sir, you take Heath’s spot, he’ll run defence.”

“This is soccer, Smoak,” Oliver stated, “not football.”

“Yeah, and you don’t think that Lieutenant Quentin is going to be gunning for you?” she scoffed.

Oliver smiled, his team really were one of the best. Even something as simple as this soccer game had them running tactics and distraction. Above all else, they were still protecting each other. 

“We good?” Felicity asked the team. They all nodded.

As Oliver turned to take the field, he felt a hand tap his backside. He turned his head quickly, expecting Felicity but seeing Heath.

“In case you were feeling left out, sir,” Heath explained with a shrug and a cheeky grin.

When Oliver took off down the right sideline, Felicity and Roy were flanking him, Heath further in field. True to Felicity’s prediction, the leader of SEAL Team 4 came screaming across the dirt. Heath adjusted his trajectory and stopped suddenly, collecting the lieutenant and sitting him on his ass.

“Sorry, sir,” Heath smirked, offering a hand to the disgruntled officer.

Oliver, with Felicity and Roy championing him down the field, went on to score. 

Felicity lept on to his back, one arm across his chest, holding on tightly to his side. The way that Felicity felt against his back, her thighs tight on his hips, brought back memories of Dubai and when she slid off he was a little rattled. 

“We’re SEAL Team 1 for a reason,” she grinned.

“SEAL Team 4!” Diggle roared, “Considering you just suffered a pantsing at the hands of SEAL Team 1, might I suggest you guys head to the showers. These guys have more than earned their afternoon respite and you guys have night patrol.”

Oliver watched Felicity as she opened another bottle of water, her thirst evident at the alarming rate she drank it.

“Thank goodness we don’t have to play anymore,” she sighed, “Listen.”

She jumped up and down, almost falling over laughing when the sloshing of water could be heard from inside her. She steadied herself with a hand to Heath’s bicep. Heath, who was doubled over laughing, put a hand on the small of her back.

It took a couple of minutes for the rest of them to calm down. 

When Felicity finally met his gaze, Oliver tried to curb desiring look he knew was plastered on his face.

She smiled timidly at him.

“Hey,” Heath interrupted their staring contest, “we’re going to go and watch a movie in the AV, you want to come?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” she replied.

She went out of her way to walk right by Oliver, placing a small hand on his forearm. She paused for the smallest, most imperceptible moment, but it said everything.


	5. As Much As I Ever Could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter has a pretty heavy spoiler for _Mission Critical_ so if you haven't read that yet, maybe do that. If however, you don't have any intention of reading Mission Critical, that's totally okay too! Just, you know, heed that spoiler warning!

Deborah Patton trudged up the steps, trying to get out of the scorching Florida sun as soon as possible. She had that day’s mail tucked under her arm and she rushed to get her keys in the door.

Slipping into her air-conditioned house, she dropped her keys in the bowl near the front door, smiling at the photo of her son in his full military regalia, a stern look on his face, but softness in his eyes. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and went through to the dining room. She sat down at the table and began sorting through the mail. A lot of letters of condolence were still coming through from acquaintances long forgotten, family they hadn’t spoken to in years.

One particular piece of mail, crumpled, dirty and thin with wear caught her attention. It had a military post mark and beautiful, if not slightly rushed, handwriting.

Deborah opened the envelope carefully, pulling out a two page letter. As she opened it, a Polaroid fell out, along with a small sprinkling of dust. The date on the back of the picture indicated that it was taken two days before her son was killed. The photo showed Heath with his arm slung around a tiny blonde’s neck. They were sat on, what appeared to be, a picnic bench. In the background of the picture Deborah could see planes and helicopters, so she assumed it was taken at a base. 

Heath was grinning widely. The young woman had her head thrown back slightly, her hands blurred from movement. Clapping, maybe? 

She unfolded the letter and was met with the same beautiful handwriting, less hurried, but still with a sense of urgency in the slope of the formed words.

 

_Dear Mr and Mrs Patton,_

_My name is Felicity Smoak. I, like your son, am a PO1 posted to Outpost Murphy with two SEAL teams and a platoon of Green Berets. Although I am not a SEAL, your son, along with the rest of the teams, made me feel as close to a SEAL as I could without going through BUD/S at Coronado._

_Your son saved my life. And lost his own. And I am so sorry._

_I stood in the center of the runway on Thursday night, and watched the massive plane take off. I struggled to comprehend how this tragedy could happen to one of life’s true characters and gentlemen._

_I resolved then and there to write to his parents._

_His military achievements — of which there were many — really play second fiddle to the human qualities that he exhibited._

_Loyal to a fault, eternally optimistic, kind hearted, wicked sense of humor, a child-like verve for life … I really could go on and on. I used to sit with Heath on rare days off and he would always mention you two, Deborah and Harvey. You weren’t just ‘mum and dad’, he made you so relatable. And it was when I was sitting with him in the sun it struck me that, above all else, he was a family man._

_I had my first real conversation with Heath two days after arriving at Murphy. It was in the chow hall on a night when we got an actual cooked meal, as opposed to an MRE._

_“The sauce is only to fool you in to thinking that the meat they’re trying to pass off as steak isn’t dryer than a SEALs asshole in the desert,” he had lent in to whisper conspiratorially in my ear._

_I was drawn to him instantly, falling for his cheeky grin, and his indescribable enthusiasm for life._

_Heath truly was uncomplicated — what you saw was what you got._

_I don’t think in my four years of military service I have ever come across a more loyal or generous-hearted colleague._

_If he had a tough conversation with a superior he would nod, agree he needed to work harder, grin because he felt bad for the person delivering the message and then get on with it._

_You knew deep down he was shattered because serving his country meant everything to him. So on days he was stood down to runner, his head wouldn’t drop because he knew his teammates didn’t need that — he was honored to be running back and forth between the TOC and other areas of the base for his friends and he went out of his way to show that._

_But Heath’s laid-back nature disguised something more important about the man. He was as mentally tough as they came._

_That toughness was evident in the way he approached the craft of battle._

_He was so strong in all aspects and would always have everyone’s backs, just like he had mine on Wednesday. The physical and mental strength he displayed in his final few seconds were evident in the force with which he pushed me out of the way and his acceptance of the event._

_We were both nerds, and it was so very refreshing to find someone who liked comic books, computers and terrible TV shows as much as I did._

_All he could do was talk about his comics. What that man didn’t know about them wasn’t worth knowing._

_A team mate offered me this quote earlier today:_

_“One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.”_

_Heath was taken from all of us way too soon, but his attitude to life, his achievements in the line of duty, and the hundreds of friends he made along the way all demonstrate that he did indeed live a crowded hour._

_That his career, and his life, was cut short in his prime is incredibly unfair._

_I do not feel worthy of his sacrifice but I am grateful. I needed to tell you just what an extraordinary young man you raised._

_Heath was a much loved member of Lieutenant Oliver Queen’s SEAL team. I was privy to the intricate workings of your son’s brilliant mind. He was my confidante and I, his. I loved him so much. I can’t even begin to tell you just how close we were._

_I don’t have a blood brother, but I am very proud to have called Heath my brother. I am a better woman for having known him._

_So, Deborah and Harvey, thank you very much for bringing Heath up to be one of the best._

_All my love and condolences,_

_PO1 Felicity Smoak._

 

“Felicity…” Deborah whispered, the name ringing a bell.

It clicked. 

Felicity Smoak was a ring-in in her son’s SEAL team. She was also one of the few surviving members of a helicopter that was shot out of the sky. She’d seen it all over the news a few months ago.

“H-HARVEY!” Deborah called. “HARVEY!”

“Deb?” he rushed through the back door, his arthritic knees making his gait slightly gangly. 

He knelt down next to her.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“This beautiful, young woman just wrote to us about knowing and working with Heath,” her voice was breaking. “She wrote some wonderful things about him.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Harvey assured her.

She pushed the letter into his hands and turned towards him, sobbing into the crook of his neck.

“I miss our son,” she wailed.


	6. (Let Me Be the One to) Follow You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is an insight in Oliver's recovery (it's a bit vague in some places) but I hope it satisfies those of you who were curious. It's more the mentality than the physicality of his recovery.

“This is humiliating,” Oliver spat through gritted teeth as the rehab assistant coached him through walking on the treadmill. 

“Lieutenant, it’s important to see what your body can take at the moment,” she cooed.

“Clearly,” he grunted, trying to hold himself up on shaky legs with shaky arms on the safety bars, “not very much.”

”Sir, you had a head injury, a fairly severe one, you’re lucky to be alive, you’re lucky they haven’t booted you out of the navy. It’s going to be slow,” she assured him.

“I need it to be fast,” he slammed the off button on the treadmill.

What he really needed, if he was truly honest with himself, if he truly allowed himself to imagine the one thing in the world that would right everything, was Felicity. 

It had been five days since he’d woken up at Bethesda, and he still hadn’t laid eyes on her. He’d heard her voice in the hallways, heard her mentioned in passing conversation, but he was yet to see her. 

He was also yet to eat or sleep. But don’t tell anyone.

“Okay, we’ll wrap it up for today,” she smiled, “you did better than yesterday.”

He scoffed and let the therapist help him into his wheelchair.

“Back to your room?” she asked, already headed in that direction.

“Yep,” he nodded, scratching his chin.

It was a short trip from the rehab facility back to his room. He passed Roy’s private room, heard Thea talking to him in a low but persuading voice.

“Come on, Roy,” she fussed, “just a little bit more.”

Oliver didn’t hear Roy’s reply, his quiet voice drowned out by a nurse’s cheery announcement as he neared his room.

“You’ve got a visitor!”

Oliver’s eyebrows furrowed. Thea was next door, Laurel wasn’t due until later in the afternoon and his parents were coming for a visit tomorrow.

The gaunt blonde waiting in his room looked like Felicity. She turned and smiled. It was definitely Felicity’s smile. 

But Oliver refused to admit that the sickly looking woman who appeared so anxious to be in his room was actually Felicity.

So he steeled himself against her smile and swore to ignore her.

 

She’d told him to not be alone. She’d told him not to be alone while gently dressing the horrendous wound on his leg.

So he made sure he never was. 

He made sure he fucked any girl he could. But he made sure he fucked them in the dark, so they couldn’t see him the scar, couldn’t baby him about it.

All the time, though, a mantra was on a rhythmic loop in his head. “She is not Felicity. She is not Felicity.”

He was still seeking her though. In social situations, where a lot of people were present, he would touch a finger to her back as he passed her. In more intimate situations, he’d touch her arm when he spoke to her. 

She returned the gesture, often ghosting a hand across his shoulders as she walked behind him. Sometimes it was in a crowded room and he’d feel a quick touch to his back. Other times, when they were sitting around at the Diggle residence, a firm hand would find his arm and drag the span of his shoulders as she passed behind him. When he was having a bad day, when flashbacks were too much, she would make herself more available. She’d hold him close, her nose and lips pressed to his ear. It was a comforting sign that, even though she may not agree with the way he was living his life, she was still there.

She never mentioned the girls he was seeing, nor if she was seeing anyone. She never asked, never even acknowledged that he was seeing a lot of someone’s. He was, however, aware that she and Barry had tried it again, briefly, unsuccessfully. 

How much of an asshole did it make him if he was a little bit grateful for that?

The two of them had also tried it again. If an ardent and lingering night alone at Lyla and John’s house was your definition of ‘tried it again’. They had yearned and ached for each other for so long that, when they finally sought each other out, it was a fiery collision of their affections, their attachments to each other. 

 

The scar on his leg would give him grief for the rest of his life. The doctors had to cut away infected tissue and pull the skin tighter together. It was stretched more than it was naturally supposed to and, as he regained fitness and muscle mass, it became uncomfortable. There’d been attempts at skin grafts, to give him a little more room to build up his quadriceps, particularly his vastus medialis which was completely severed by the shrapnel. His sartorious, the strap of muscle that attached on the outside of the hip and slung across the front of the thigh to attach on the inside of his knee, had been unable to be repaired and his thigh had two bulges where the remains of the muscle sat. 

That, and his destroyed knee cartilage, were the only two injuries he sustained that bothered to hang around and remind him of how close he and his three closest friends came to dying. 

He decided it was more than enough.

 

When she’d been sick, Oliver had damn near worried himself stupid. He’d been embarrassed when Helena found him in her room. He’d tried to explain it away. He’d been the one to find her, the one to accompany her to the hospital. He told Helena they were the reasons he was still here. He didn’t want her to wake up and find herself alone. 

Helena had seen right through his bullshit, called him on it after lunch. 

Through narrowed eyes, she’d explained that it was now obvious where his head had been all the time. Who he’d been thinking about, who he really loved. 

So that was the end of Helena and the beginning of a string of nameless, instantly forgotten women. The philandering behaviour continued for several months. It was not satisfying. It didn’t extinguish his misery, misery that burned through him and made him want to die.

The moment that broke his self-destructive behaviour came two weeks before the medal ceremony. The Officers Ball was held on the base in the extravagant hall reserved for such an event. Oliver, not having the energy to find himself a date, invited Felicity as his plus one. Sailors did not usually attend these balls, having their own a week earlier, but she had agreed, on the proviso that he buy her a dress.

And buy her a dress he did. The two of them went to the Regency Park shopping centre and bought a stunning green dress. It was the only ball where uniform was not required, so Oliver put his suit in to be dry cleaned and bought a new pair of dress shoes. Felicity drew the line at him buying her shoes, though, explaining that she’d wear an old pair that would match the detail on the dress.

The night had certainly been something. She’d sat next to him during the formal dinner service, attentive to what he had to say, ready to weigh in on the conversations that were occurring. He had admired her all night long as she held her own with higher ranked colleagues. She looked panicked once, when someone had dropped a glass, but he’d leaned closer to her, a hand on the top of her chair, fingers pressing in between her shoulder blades.

They’d danced. He’d asked her to when couples were invited to the floor to slow dance. The singer had been crooning “No one's trying to stop this, they can see you're my thing” when Felicity shifted a little closer to him, her hot breathe was expelled on his neck and he realised she was mouthing the lyrics. 

Goosebumps spread the length of his body, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his heart rate quickened. 

“Felicity,” he whispered, stooping slightly to press his nose into her ear.

“Ssh,” she whispered, placing a small kiss just above his collar.

He straightened and unconsciously pulled her closer still, satisfied when she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. 

He felt her breath hitch under his hand on her back and she squeezed his other hand. In reaction to this, he rubbed his thumb up and down her tiny wrist. 

It was then he decided he had to have her. He’d no longer ignore her when it mattered most. 

 

So after the medal ceremony, after Holly Diggle’s first birthday celebrations, after all the hullaballoo in the lead up to some well-deserved leave, he did. He leaned into her, not like a tree swaying in wind, but heavy with purpose, and pressed his lips against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have decided to write ten fill-in-the-blanks... So far, I have nine, so I'm on the hunt for a tenth. If anyone has suggestions?


	7. You Are What I'm Here For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little jumpy but I think it's indicative of Roy's state of mind. I had another paragraph that I really wanted to include in here (to show the good that a service dog can do) but it was too hard to work it in, especially considering that this chapter is about how he is dealing with having Cindy...

Roy was never one for children. Certainly not after seeing what he had seen in Afghanistan. Certainly not after sustaining career ending injuries. Certainly not dealing with the excruciating PTSD that he was. And certainly not at the tender age of 21.

But ask him if, five years ago, he thought he’d be holding Thea’s hand as she screamed profanities at him, he’d shrug. 

“No, but here I am.”

Here I am. Three words that were quickly becoming Roy’s favourite. He was here. He’d made it through. Everything.

So when Thea was cursing him, squeezing his hand so tight that he thought his fingers were going to pop off, he was grinning like an idiot.

When Cindy Louise came kicking and screaming into the world and was placed in his arms, he was grinning like an idiot.

When the blood became too much, the controlled chaos sending him into a mild panic, he had to hand the tiny human back to the doctor and leave the room. Felicity was waiting outside. She’d spoken soft words to him, melodious nonsense, with light touches.

After he’d calmed down, he’d told Felicity about his daughter. How tiny she was, her head of fierce dark curls, her bright blue eyes, the small birthmark on her upper thigh, and he was once again grinning like an idiot.

In stark contrast to the turbulent existence he had lived for the past six months, the serenity that holding his daughter brought to him could not be explained. She was a quiet baby, easy to settle. 

His transition home was difficult to say the least. He was paranoid. He carried a pistol at all times. 

(He didn’t know that Thea had taken the live rounds, replaced them with blanks, lest he accidentally, in a fit of terror, used it on her or Oliver or Diggle or Felicity.)

He assessed the threat level of every person he came into contact with, assessed the best escape routes of every place he went to.

On the outside, he looked like any other 21 year old. He bought the newest clothes; he played beer pong; he rooted for the Jaguars (a terrible life choice really). But inside, there was something wrong. 

He was given a sleep aid and told to come back and see the psychologists in six months. He didn’t last six days. 

Thea was furious with the way that he had been treated. There was very obviously something wrong with Roy and the way that his mind was now wired. He didn’t sleep for those six days right after he woke up. He was a fragile wreck by the end of it. A doctor walking up the hall would have him cowering, a dropped food tray would have him looking for a weapon to use. 

People asked him all the time, “How many people have you killed?” He didn’t know if his answer made him less, or more, of a man.

BUD/S training at Coronado (he and Heath graduated from the same class, 289) had prepared him physically for war. At the time he was convinced it had mentally prepared him too.

The brothers he made there were still a huge presence in his life. He sweated with them, he bled with them, and (at the time) he was in the most pain he’d ever been in his life with them. They were more to him than friends. They knew him better than his family, because when in pain, real pain, he saw who he really was and what he could really do. Those guys were his new brothers, guys that went through hell for him and that he went through hell for. Because he didn’t know what it really meant to have a brother until they were there next to him in the same pain and they were getting him through it as he got them through it. The brotherhood formed was seeing a challenge and saying that would be impossible alone but together, it was just another challenge.

The challenge of raising a tiny human while retraining himself was no different. Everyone from 289 (and from the years before and after) would email, call, text, or stop by. Whether it was for an hour or a week, the help they offered to both Roy and Thea was immeasurable.

Oliver was surprisingly (or unsurprisingly) present. For a little while, when he was unable to do any of the handy man stuff required, he would just pop over in the afternoon. The two men would sit together, with Patton at Roy’s feet, inside the flyscreened barbecue area. They’d remain completely silent, most of the time. When the sun started to set, Thea (and later, Felicity), would come out carrying salads and meat to be cooked.

As Cindy grew, the barbecue area was no longer silent. She would tromp outside on her chubby legs, carrying a sauce bottle, brandishing it towards her father. Oliver would then stand up and go inside to help the girls. The more people around, the more food there would be. 

Sometimes, Roy still couldn’t handle it. Sometimes, he’d have to excuse himself and go inside, lock himself in the bedroom. Sometimes, it would only be for five minutes. Other times, Oliver or Felicity would come gently knocking after an hour. Thea would rarely come upstairs to see him. He knew that it wasn’t that she was scared or unsure. She was just that sure that Oliver and Felicity could handle it better. If he needed to unload something, or if he’d remembered a moment, those two were better equipped, mentally, to deal with it. Roy knew it upset her greatly when he would go into detail. So he didn’t mind her not making the trip up to the bedroom.

Sometimes Cindy, with little knowledge of what was going on, would pound on the door shouting “Dadi!”, getting more and more upset that he wouldn’t answer.

She did have some understanding of what was happening, though. Whether it was learned behaviour or some creepy childs intuition, she knew something was not quite right with her Dad. If he eventually let her in the bedroom, she’d just crawl or walk over to him, climb onto his lap and hold his hand. If it had been a particularly rough day, if it was one of his worse panic attacks, she would stand up on his thighs, lean against his chest, and cup his face, cooing and clumsily wiping away his tears.

When this happened, Felicity would swoop in a few minutes later, whether she was downstairs or if Thea had to call her to come over (she was only a three minute walk down the street on base), pluck Cindy up and smother her in loud kisses.

Then she’d direct her to the door, tell her to go find her mum, and sit with Roy. Sometimes they’d talk, sometimes they wouldn’t. Other times, when sobs wracked his chest, Felicity would sit there with a hand on his knee, or rub his back with just her fingertips.

Roy’s friendship with Felicity had only grown since their return home. The loss of Heath had pulled them together so quickly and in such a way that, when the helicopter was shot from the sky, there was no doubt that they had each others backs. 

His recollection of the three days lost in the hills was foggy, to say the least. He remembered jumping off the cliff holding tightly to Felicity’s hand to stave off her fear, as much as his own. After that, he didn’t really have much, except for her soft fingers on his face, when everything hurt, when he could barely breathe, and her quiet words as his surroundings faded again.

From all reports, it was her that he owed his life to. Felicity had worked miracles in a place where they were few and far between. Everything that she did meant that he was able to come home to Thea, and would continue to come home to Cindy. 

He’d always try to explain to Felicity how much he owed her, but the words were never enough. The support that she offered him and Thea, Oliver, John and Lyla when she must have been dying inside could never be repaid. 

He and Thea had already promised each other that, if they were lucky enough to have another baby, the Latin derivative of happiness, luck and good fortune would make it into the naming.

Until that time, Cindy Louise Harper was everything that Roy needed in the years following his final deployment to Afghanistan. Thea, of course, was everything he needed all his life.

He’d never be quite right. But he had those two wonderful girls to make everything that little bit easier.


	8. Waiting on the End of the Phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've written chapter after chapter with Mama Smoak and a sister I've created for Felicity. Instead. Take this. Before i get too carried away.

Donna Smoak loved her youngest daughter, Felicity, in a completely different way to her eldest, Eleanor. She was proud of both her children, though they were not children anymore. They were adults, with careers and a life of their own.

Eleanor and Felicity. Light and Happiness. Felicity; brave, smart, fiercely independent. Eleanor; bright, serious, striking.

When she’d gotten the phone call from Captain Amanda Waller at four o’clock in the morning, she knew it couldn’t have been good. 

“Ms. Smoak?” came the voice, clear and confident.

“Yes?” she’d replied cautiously, knuckling the sleep away from one eye.

“I’m Captain Amanda Waller, your daughter, Petty Officer First Class Felicity Smoak, was involved in an incident during a mission in Afghanistan.”

Dread. 

“Is she-?” Donna couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Ms. Smoak, I’m going to be completely honest with you,” Waller started, “she’s MIA at the moment. The helo she was traveling in was shot out of the sky. The crash scene was quickly found by another SEAL team and secured. Petty Officer Smoak, along with two SEALs and one Green Beret are the only ones who have not been recovered.”

“What, um, what’s being done to, what can be done?” 

“At this point in time, we’re waiting to hear from them. Smoak and another Petty Officer are both carrying good communications equipment. We are hoping that they are in a position to use that equipment to contact us.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really, Ms. Smoak, say a prayer, stay by the phone, I’ll call you when I know something.”

 

True to her word, Amanda Waller had called Donna that afternoon.

“We’ve heard from Petty Officer Smoak,” she explained, “she and the three men are alive, we are unsure of their condition, but every effort is being made to reach them.”

“The men with her,” Donna asked, “what are their names?”

As Captain Waller had recited their names, Donna had scribbled them down.

Lieutenant Oliver Queen.

Petty Officer Second Class Roy Harper.

Sergeant John Diggle. 

Then she’d made every attempt to get into contact with their families.

Sergeant John Diggle’s wife, _his pregnant wife_ , was the most rational person Donna had ever spoken to. She was military too, and explained that she was aware of the SAR party that was being formed. She said that they were among the best. That the three men with Felicity were among the best. They had a good chance of being found alive, of evading capture.

When she’d spoken to Petty Officer Roy Harper’s fiancée, her heart had just about imploded. Thea was Thea Queen, sister to another of the men currently listed MIA. The softly spoken twenty year old had sobbed down the phone, but did everything she could in ensure her that if there was anybody that could get Felicity out of a situation, it was Roy and Oliver. 

“They’re SEALs, ma’am,” Thea had explained, “they’re practically indestructible.”

Moira Queen called every two hours, on the dot, to check on her well-being, offering to fly Donna to Starling City so she’d have a better support network.

Donna had declined, explaining that she’d take Moira up on the offer when their children returned home.

 

The call came just as Donna was packing the dishwasher. Her neighbors had come around for dinner, bringing with them a delicious chicken pie and enough conversation to serve as a momentary distraction. 

“Mom,” Eleanor had come into the kitchen, the house phone held out in front of her, “it’s Captain Amanda Waller.”

Donna held eye contact with her eldest daughter for longer than necessary before crossing the kitchen floor and taking the phone.

“Captain Waller?” she paced through to the living room, Eleanor hot on her heels.

“Ms. Smoak, I’m calling to inform you that Petty Officer Smoak, along with Lieutenant Queen, Petty Officer Harper and Sergeant John Diggle have all been rescued and are currently being assessed by our tactical trauma team.”

Donna breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, turning to Eleanor and smiling.

Eleanor choked on a sob, the relief on her face making Donna burst into tears. Eleanor crashed into her mother’s open arm, howling into the crook of her neck.

“Is everyone okay?” Donna finally asked.

“I can’t tell you much more, ma’am,” Waller was patient in her reply, ”but I have been informed that two of them are gravely injured. I am not sure if your daughter is one of them. Please bear this in mind. When they do return home, they’ll be taken straight to Bethesda, I will let you know their date of arrival when I find out.”

“Yes, yes, of course, thank you, thank you so much,” Donna rushed.

The two women said goodbye and hung up.

Donna wrapped both arms around Eleanor.

“Norie,” she whispered into her hair, “I love you.”

Donna was still holding her trembling daughter when the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Donna!” Moira’s relief immediately identified her, “did you get the call?”

 

If she hadn’t have been told that it was her daughter in the bed, Donna wouldn’t have recognised Felicity when she first entered the room at the Walter Reed National Military Hospital. 

Her long hair was mostly dark. Donna hadn’t seen her daughter anything but blonde for a good few years now. She was skinny, painfully so. It showed in the hollows of her cheeks, the skeletal fingers that were curled around the bed sheet. 

Donna couldn’t tell if the dark circles under her eyes were tiredness or bruises. The side of her face was swollen and there was a small row of stitches that ran the length of her cheekbone. Ridiculously, Donna hoped that it wouldn’t be an awful scar.

“Mom,” Eleanor gently prodded her in the ribs, “come on.”

Donna took tentative steps towards the bed and half sat-half lent against it. She reached for Felicity’s hand but, immediately upon contact, Felicity unconsciously snatched her hand away, a strangled cry leaving her throat.

That did it for Donna.

“Oh,” she sobbed, turning into Eleanor, hands coming up to cover her face. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she could fix this.

After a little while, Eleanor let go of her mother and walked around to the side of the bed. She didn’t know what she was expecting her sister to look like. Maybe too much TV had distorted the idea in her head that Felicity wouldn’t look that bad. But she looked awful. Even asleep, her eyebrows were drawn together in pain, her mouth turned down, bottom lip trembling slightly. 

“’Lis?” Eleanor brushed her fingers against Felicity’s. Her hand twitched. Her nails, usually polished and manicured, were chipped, broken and torn. Eleanor would have to remedy that as soon as possible. “’Lis?”

Felicity’s eyes opened lazily and she looked up at her sister.

“Hey,” Eleanor offered.

“Norie?” Felicity’s voice cracked.

“Yeah,” she nodded, sniffing.

“Mom?”

“Here, baby,” Donna put a hand on Felicity’s thigh, making her wince.

Felicity burst into tears and Eleanor lent over to hug her, burying her face in the shoulder that wasn’t bandaged and strapped.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity whispered.

“Don’t be, don’t you ever be sorry,” Eleanor murmured back, pushing hair off Felicity’s face as she sat back.

“Roy, Diggle, Oliver…” Felicity muttered, trying to wipe tears off her face. "Oliver..."

Eleanor used her thumbs to help. She was surprised that Felicity let her. She was usually so incredibly stubborn in her refusal to let Eleanor baby her, look after her.

“We just got here, ‘Lis, everyone is in with them though, they all have family with them,” Donna explained, rubbing her leg gently.

“I was so scared,” Felicity’s face crumbled again.

“It’s okay, baby,” Donna assured her, “you’re here now, we’re going to look after you, you are going to get better.”

“Oliver…” Felicity hiccuped, her concern suggested she didn't realise they'd just had this conversation. “Is he okay?”

“Everyone is a little worse for wear, Lis Bear, but you’re all going to get through it,” Eleanor explained. “Listen to me, Felicity, look at me, you’re here, you’re alive, I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

“No,” Felicity turned her head away, “don’t be proud of me.”

Donna Smoak wasn’t sure her heart would ever repair after hearing that sentence.


	9. Winter In My Heart

Tommy swore he still heard things. Pathetic cries, Pashto phrases, the terrifying moan of the door as it opened. He saw ghosts too. The two men, now nameless, that died next to him. The men who had tortured them all. They were ghosts now too. 

Sometimes he saw the ghost of Oliver too, the ghost of who he was, who he might have become before they were captured. 

What shocked him the most, though, was when he rounded a corner on the street and saw himself, with a wife and a couple of children. He’d throw himself against the building and watch from the shadows. It could take seconds, it could take minutes, but he’d eventually realise that the person he was watching was not some alternate version of himself. It wasn't some Sliding Doors scenario. It wasn’t the him that decided against volunteering for the op. Or the him that heard the approaching hostiles instead of being distracted by one of Oliver’s terrible jokes.

Physically, it took surprisingly little time for Tommy to recover from the injuries he sustained. His broken wrist had to be re-broken and set, to ensure minimal problems later in life. The gunshot wounds, stab wounds and shrapnel wounds that weren’t infected (meaning they were inflicted in the few days before their rescue) were easily fixed with a good clean out, a few stitches and a heavy dose of oral antibiotics. The oldest wounds, the ones sustained in the initial firefight, had also healed. SEALs were trained in combat first aid. They’d cleaned the wounds, stitched each other up and done their best to keep the filth out of them. 

It was the other ones sustained in the middle of summer, where flies were rampant and dirt hung in the air, that were the main concern. 

He remembered nothing of the ordeal after the first few weeks. Nothing that he could grasp on to, anyway. He could remember Oliver and his persistent voice.

_Open your eyes, Tommy. Open your eyes._

He was tired. He hadn’t felt that weary in his entire existence. It wasn’t the exhaustion that came with a hard day of work, it was a fatigue that made him want to die. At least he’d sleep forever then.

_Tommy, hey, look at me. Right here. Good._

God, he had just wanted to sleep.

The PTSD that hung around more than made up for his lack of memory. Chilling dreams of an enemy closing in startled him from a fitful sleep. On windy nights, the movement of leaves and branches triggered recollections of the Taliban approaching the hut they were holding them in. Their footfalls breaking crispy leaves and small twigs before they’d come in and break their bones and skin.

Screams on joy wouldn’t register as such in Tommy’s mind. He’d hear a scream and he’d hear Oliver, pinned down by four men at his extremities, screaming in agony as a fifth man steadily drew a blunt and dirty blade across his abdomen. 

Either that, or he’d hear his own. The pathetic cries that he tried to suppress so that Oliver would stop shouting at the enemy. 

_Stop. No! You motherfuckers! Leave him alone! Hey!_

He couldn’t handle the operational side of the SEALs anymore, so he took the Lieutenant Commander Promotions Course, got promoted and ended up becoming a Surface Warfare Officer. He was still operational on the ship, but it wasn’t the same as being a SEAL. There was a bigger team to make decisions, people higher up than him that gave orders. It was a relief to not have the pressure of Command Control on him. He was good at taking orders. 

Amanda Waller had insisted he collaborate with Oliver and find someone capable of filling the CSO and CIS roles that were required by Oliver’s SEAL team and Diggle’s Green Berets. He panicked. Had to lock himself in his cabin and calm himself down. 

Then, after a few days contemplation, he’d sent his best friend and the young, innocent Petty Officer Felicity Smoak to the slaughter.

What an idiot. 

He should have known that Felicity would get under Oliver’s skin. What he didn’t expect was that Oliver would get under hers. And then they’d nearly destroy the entire operation because neither of them had the ability to control themselves after a few drinks. 

When a Petty Officer Third Class had patched through the emergency call to his cabin at five in the morning, Tommy had sat completely stupefied on the side of his rack for a good fifteen minutes.

Oliver was MIA. Again. Only this time Tommy wasn’t there with him. Nobody deserved that. Especially not Oliver. Especially not twice. He’d called through to the sick bay onboard and explained that he’d need a note to cover him for the day. He was a teary mess for the next 24 hours, unable to hold a conversation without having to excuse himself and return to his cabin.

In the end, he’d written a terse note on the whiteboard outside his cabin, locked the door and climbed in to bed with his headphones blaring.

Tommy wouldn’t see Oliver for five weeks after the rescue.

Thea had called, explained that Oliver had been asking about him. Apparently, in a haze of painkillers and antibiotics, Oliver had inquired to Tommy’s well being, if he had survived. Thea wasn’t sure if he thought he was back in 2007, or if he thought that Tommy had been with him again. 

He should have been there. 

Just like with their own return many moons ago, Oliver was withdrawn from everybody but the three he’d been through it with. It took a stretch of six months before Oliver had texted Tommy and asked if, next time his ship was in, he wanted to go for a beer. If the USS Zephyr hadn't been thousands of miles out to see, he would have jumped over the side and swum back to Mayport.

 

Tommy was aware that the self-restraint Felicity and Oliver were exhibiting was almost superhuman. Felicity would flinch at the smallest touch from Oliver. And don’t think Tommy missed the goose bumps that erupted up Oliver’s arms when Felicity would skim past him. He just couldn’t work out why, when they felt what they felt for each other, they’d go without it. And why Oliver was being such a god awful human being about it.

Tommy didn’t know if the damage done to him could be repaired or lessened by a relationship that was as good as the one his best friend had with the sassy blonde. He’d had a few short relationships that felt hopeful at the start, though were undone by his inability to open up. Plus, waking up panicked and slick with sweat was hard to explain without sending a woman running in the opposite direction. So, while he wasn’t sure he’d find someone, if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t twiddle his thumbs.

 

Tommy had been on the bridge the morning that Felicity had passed out. 

She’d been addressing a few new sailors that had been posted on board the previous night when she’d gotten distracted, muddled her way through a sentence and promptly dropped like a sack of potatoes. 

Tommy had carried her to the sickbay, sat with her the entire time the medical officers had run tests. He helped her sit up and had rubbed her back as she dry heaved her way through the telephone conversation with Oliver. 

Felicity had held her stomach contents in long enough to tell Tommy that if he ever told Oliver he’d found out she was pregnant before him, there would be hell to pay. 

The fact their first born was given his name just went to show that Felicity didn’t really mean what she’d said.

Having said that, when Tommy was on shore leave towards the end of Felicity’s pregnancy he’d sent a message to Oliver.

_Hey bud. Beer tonight?_

_Sorry, mate._ The reply had said. _My hysterically pregnant girlfriend has hit waddle stage. She can’t even bend over to pick something up off the floor. She’s still crying a river over the cookie she dropped earlier._

After a good chuckle Tommy had text back. _Oh dear God. You stay at home. I’ll bring the beer to you._

And when he had swung by later that afternoon, a six pack of Michelob in hand, Felicity had threatened him with a slow and painful death if he relayed her current state to anyone.

He would have laughed if the blonde (who was about as round as she was tall in the late stage of pregnancy) hadn’t looked so sincerely evil when she’d said it.

 

They’d all taken time to heal. It’d had taken Tommy the longest. He had thought that being ice cold would hide everything. It turns out, strong friendships were all you needed to warm and rekindle a zeal for a good life.


	10. Against the Grain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally, this was meant to be that last part of this story, but I have one more chapter that I think everyone needs.
> 
> I am getting the odd kudos here and there so I assume that people are still reading this.
> 
> Honestly, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. I'm a little sad that this is coming to an end. I liked writing this universe. Again, if there is anything you're curious about, leave a comment, I can probably whip up a drabble for you.

Felicity approached their bedroom, hoping that he’d calmed down enough to try and talk some sense in to him.

She’d put Heath down for his afternoon nap, hoping it would give them enough time to talk this through, without it escalating like it had.

Admittedly, she had not argued in a particularly reasonable way either. He was not the only one at fault. They were both stubborn and too invested in each other to resolve arguments right away. They both needed a cooling off period.

She pushed the slightly ajar door open further, only to see him throwing his issued desert camouflage uniforms into a brown canvas duffel.

“So you’re going,” she leant against the door frame, arms crossed at her chest. “To Iskandariyah.”

“It’ll be fine,” he threw a handful of underwear into the bag, “I’ll come back,” he stuffed a handful of green woolen socks down the side, “I’ll be okay.”

“I wish that sounded more convincing,” her hands fell to her sides as she approached him, “And I wish you wouldn’t go but I know you better so I’m not going to ask you to stay.”

“I appreciate that,” he turned to her, nodded once and then returned to packing his bag. A few undershirts, a spare Velcro band for his watch.

“But there is one thing I need to ask you to do. And you’re not going to want to.”

“Well if it’s you asking I’ll do it,” he replied. And she knew it was the truth.

“Kill him,” Felicity urged, “You have to kill him and you have to come home.”

He looked set to reason with her, but she continued.

“This guy is one of the most dangerous men that has ever walked the earth,” her voice wavered slightly.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think we could beat him,” he explained.

“I don’t doubt that you will beat him, Oliver,” she disputed. Her vision blurred and she knew she was about to cry. “I’m so afraid that your humanity, the good man that you have become, is going to make you second guess yourself. And that the split second pause for thought is going to get you killed.”

“I’ll be fine,” he pulled her close and kissed her forehead as she sighed heavily. She grabbed his bicep with one hand and at the hem of his shirt with the other, anything to make him stay that little bit longer.

“Oliver…”

He pulled away. “I’ll see you in three months,” he whispered.

 

Four months later Oliver was still not home. Felicity hadn’t heard from him for nearly six weeks now. Any attempt to get any information apart from “They’re on an op” was proving futile.

Which is why she found herself sitting outside Captain Waller’s office, an eight month old Heath fast asleep in baby carrier strapped to her front. 

“Miss Smoak?” Captain Waller called from inside her office.

“It’s Senior Chief Petty Officer Smoak, actually,” she replied, standing up and walking in.

“Sorry, Petty Officer, I just assumed you weren’t in anymore.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” Felicity smiled.

“What brings you to my building then?”

“Where is Oliver?” she asked, “his posting order was three months, it’s been four, and I haven’t heard a peep from him for a long time.”

“They’re on an op,” Amanda smiled.

"Oh boy, I am running out of expletives,” Felicity muttered under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“That’s not good enough. My security clearance is equal to yours, ma’am, I want to know where my husband is.”

“Husband?” Waller questioned, a smirk on her face.

Felicity held up her left hand, flashing the engagement ring with a new silver band underneath it. They’d eloped two days prior to Oliver’s crash posting. They hadn’t known about the posting at that point, it was just a timely coincidence. They’d walked into the registry office, pulled two witnesses off the street, and signed the papers.

“Husband,” Felicity repeated firmly, “where is he?”

“SEAL Team 1 have had to go dark,” Captain Waller explained, her voice low, her face solemn. “The operation to detain their target is ramping up.”

Felicity knew what that meant. It meant the locals were getting suspicious. It’s hard to try and convince people that the heavily bearded and armed units of men that were scoping out their villages were merely soldiers. Even Iraqis knew that American military had a strict ‘no beard’ policy. SEAL teams were allowed beards because, when wearing their civvies, they tended to blend in more. They looked rugged, and most of the time, like lumberjacks on steroids. But they would put you down faster than the blink of an eye.

“When are you expecting the operation to take place?” Felicity asked.

“In the next six to eight weeks,” Waller explained with an unapologetic lift of her shoulders, “that’s all I know. I will keep you in the loop.”

 

Felicity stood in the crowd that had gathered at the end of an out of commission runway. It had been designated as the ‘arrivals lounge’ for family members of the men returning home.

It was a grey day, the threat of a thunderstorm had come rolling in with the Hercules. Felicity knew that the men on board would be getting debriefed before being off loaded. The usual “behave yourself, don’t get drunk tonight and don’t hit your wife”.

Heath was looking around, his eyes wide in a way only an eleven month olds can be. The commotion surrounding them had silenced him. His mouth was open in awe and he’d occasional shriek in excitement when he saw a balloon or another child his age.

“You excited, bub?” Felicity bounced Heath on her hip. 

“Ma!” he smiled, clapping his hands together.

“Me too,” she kissed his forehead, hoping that the short Skype conversations, the videos of Oliver that she showed Heath, and the fact that she was always pointing at a picture of Oliver and explaining who he was would be enough.

Heath was going through a stage where he detested kisses and, when Felicity would plant one on him, he’d jerk away, wipe his chubby hand over the spot and make an ‘ack!’ sound. In response, Felicity would put kisses all over his face and neck, snorting and pretending to take bites out of him until he laughed.

He was a mini Oliver in every way possible. It had been nice to watch him develop in to such a familiar face. She saw nothing of herself within Heath, but she didn’t mind. 

Felicity was pulling faces at Heath when she heard a collective cheer from crowd. Looking towards the Herc she saw the door being lowered. Her heart leapt into her throat and she felt her knees shaking.

Heath, taking a cue from everyone around him, clapped his hands, smiling and laughing.

Men trudged down the ramp, bags slung over their shoulders. They all looked weary but, the minute they saw a familiar face waiting for them, that tiredness was gone. It was replaced with many emotions. Happiness was the most obvious one. 

She scanned the men, who all looked so similar in their desert uniforms. Then she saw him. She recognised his slightly lopsided gait first, then the weird wayfarers he liked to wear. He appeared to be looking for her too and, when their eyes finally met, Felicity lost the ability to think. She breathed out shakily, feeling her lower lip tremble. He paused mid stride when he saw her, his face breaking out into the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. 

She started walking towards him, practiced in the art of avoiding bumping into people with her tiny human extension. She quickened her pace when he did and, as soon as they were close enough, he dropped his bags a split second before she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and one arm around his neck. She felt both his arms go around them, one hand squeezing her ribs tightly. She assumed the other had found Heath’s chubby leg. 

Felicity felt Oliver’s hot breath on her neck as he placed a kiss below her ear. He let her go slowly and once her feet were on the ground, she looked up at him.

He smiled and placed a hand on the arm that wasn’t supporting Heath, pulling her close to press a kiss to her forehead. She grabbed at his shirt and leaned into his lips. A kiss so similar to that of his farewell, but one that was so much more important.

After a momentary suspension of time, they pulled away.

“Hey,” he smiled at her.

“Hi,” she smiled back.

“DA!” a shriek of delight broke their eye contact. 

“Little man!” Oliver turned to his son and held out his hands.

Heath squirmed eagerly, making grabby hands at his dad. Felicity helped him cross the space between them and Heath nestled into his father’s neck.

“Da, da, da,” he babbled. 

He kissed his son’s ear and, just as Felicity was about to warn Oliver of Heath’s new quirk, their tiny human surprised them both.

“Love you,” Heath smiled, kissing his father back.

Oliver’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Felicity, recovering quickly, clapped her hands and rubbed Heath’s back.

“We may have been practicing that,” Felicity explained.

Oliver picked up his backpack, smiling widely. Felicity effortlessly picked up the canvas bag and let her husband put a strong arm around her shoulder.

He kissed the side of her head and whispered in her ear.

“Let’s go home.”


	11. Little Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one. Thank you all very much for reading, for the comments and for the kudos.
> 
> I feel like I've gotten into the swing of this writing business so I hope that some more ideas and other such happenings pop in to my head and I can put out something else soon-ish.
> 
> Until then.

“Come on, Little H,” Oliver bundled Heath up against him, “it’s nap time.”

“DA!” Heath exclaimed, napping the furthest thing from his 14 month olds mind.

Oliver adjusted the light blanket over the two of them and pretended to be asleep. The fan above them whirled softly and Oliver was grateful for the newly installed air-conditioner in the master bedroom.

“Da, da, da, da,” Heath was chanting.

“What’s up, buddy?” Oliver asked, not opening his eyes. 

“Eh,” he grumbled, doing his best impersonation of worm, wriggling and kicking Oliver in the stomach.

“Come on,” Oliver chided, “you’re restless, you’re over tired, you need a nap.”

“Eh-o?” Heath shouted.

Oliver’s eyes snapped open and he saw Heath sitting up with his phone pressed to the side of his little head.

“Eh-o?” he kept repeating. Then he pulled the phone away, shook it violently and threw it down the side of the bed.

“Buddy,” Oliver warned, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Love you?” Heath grinned.

“Nope, uh-uh, that’s not going to work,” Oliver shook his head, but couldn’t stop his lips spreading into a smile or the immense about of pride and love that swelled inside him.

Heath stood up on the bed and jumped up and down.

“Love you, love you, love you, love you,” he squealed so fast that the words melted together into a breathless chant of ‘lovoo’.

“Heath Thomas Queen,” Oliver raised his voice a little.

Heath stopped bouncing and squatted slightly. He looked a little shocked at his Dad’s outburst but then a smirk, mischievous smirk, appeared on his face.

Without warning he launched himself at his dad, a full body slam accompanied by a shrieked ‘LoVoo!’ a whole decibel higher than it had been.

Oliver had rolled onto his back to try and deflect some of the blow away from his diaphragm but he still ended up slightly winded and with a maniacally giggling Heath on his chest.

“Oof, buddy, seriously, you gotta stop,” Oliver wrapped his arms tightly around Heath.

“Da!”

“Yeah, I know,” Oliver replied.

“Pway!” Heath exclaimed.

“No,” Oliver shook his head, “No play, sleep.”

“No ‘leep!”

“Yes sleep.”

“NO!”

“Do you want to see Cindy and Holly tomorrow afternoon?” Oliver raised an eyebrow.

Heath nodded enthusiastically.

“Well, then, Little H, I hate to break it to you, but you need a nap.”

“Nooooooooooooo!” Heath rolled away and, before Oliver could grab him, continued off the side of the bed.

There was a thud, a pause and then a wail as Oliver scooted across the bed.

“Da, da, da,” Heath blubbered, reaching up from the ground and making grabby fists.

“You’re okay, dude,” Oliver stooped to pick Heath up and then stood up, heading towards the bedroom door. He pressed his mouth and nose to the side of Heath’s head and kissed it and then breathed in the smell of him. “You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

“Dada,” he wept, wiping his snotty face with his chubby fist.

“Ssh,” Oliver kissed the side of his head again as he navigated the stairs.

Over the years, Oliver felt he had hurt a lot of people, made a lot of people cry – his mom, Thea, Laurel, other lovers, girls he didn’t even really know, Felicity. But for some reason, it really broke his heart when Heath cried for him. When his shockingly deep, rough and needy voice used few words to plead with him. Maybe because Heath had no agenda. Heath just loved him for no reason at all. 

He sat Heath on the vanity in the downstairs bathroom and wiped his face clean, taking care to be extra gentle, with a washcloth. Once he was done he stood Heath up so they were face to face.

“You know I love you, right?” he smiled at his son.

Heath smiled back and nodded, wrapping his arms around Oliver’s neck.

“Here’s the deal,” Oliver started, gently prying Heath away, holding him under his armpits, “Daddy has work to do, even though it’s his day off. You can play quietly-” Heath squealed happily. “Listen, you can play quietly, but Daddy has to work on the computer. And you can’t tell Mommy that you didn’t have a nap today, okay?”

“’Tay,” Heath smiled a toothy grin.

“Do we have deal?”

Heath nodded.

“Shake on it?”

Like a puppy happy to impress his owner, Heath did what he and Oliver had been practicing. When Oliver offered the words “Shake on it?” instead of actually shaking hands, the two of them would thrash their arms and legs about and then laugh like idiots.

“Good man,” he picked Heath up and held him under one arm, like a sack of potatoes. 

“Bai!” he waved at his own reflection as they left the bathroom.

“You goose,” Oliver chuckled under his breath.

 

Oliver had been sat at the computer for nearly twenty minutes, powering through some slides for work, listening to Heath amuse himself in the playroom next door.

“You doing okay, buddy?” he called out for the twentieth time.

Silence.

Suspicion.

“Crap,” Oliver pushed the chair back fast and raced into the rumpus room. Toys were scattered everywhere, books left open. 

But no Heath.

“Heath?” Oliver called, “Buddy? Where are you?”

He frantically searched the house. Well, the bottom floor anyway, Heath couldn’t get past the child proof gate at the bottom of the stairs. Then he noted the back door was open.  
“Fuck,” he huffed under his breath and raced into the backyard.

“DA!” Heath shouted happily as Oliver pushed open the screen door to the barbecue area. “DA! ‘elp!”

Heath was trying to connect the hose to his new favourite toy. Felicity had come home from Publix one day with a plastic blow up sprinkler shaped like a palm tree. When connected to a hose, the fronds of the tree sprayed a fine mist of water. Heath’s preference was to stand underneath it with his mouth open and let the spray hit his tongue. Oliver had called him a ‘weirdo’ the first time he’d done it and earned a slap up the side of his head from Felicity.

“Our son is not a weirdo,” she’d chastised.

Oliver raced over to Heath. 

“Buddy, you scared me!” he exclaimed, squatting down in front of him. “You can’t just come outside by yourself, not just yet, anyway, you’re still little.”

“Bah, Da,” Heath couldn’t understand his fathers disinclination to help him and was getting frustrated. He bent to pick up the hose and began moving towards where the deflated palm tree sat in the shade. 

“Okay,” Oliver sighed, “if we’re gonna play with the sprinkler, we’ve gotta get changed, Mom will kill us if we get another set of your clothes saturated.”

 

When Felicity came home two hours later, it took her a little while to locate her husband and her son. Finally, she found them. They were in the backyard, Heath’s boyish squeals drowning out her calls for them. Oliver, his board shorts slung low on his hips, a wide brimmed straw hat on his head. Heath, completely nude save for a blue bucket hat, running around under the blow up palm tree as it sprayed water softly. He was giggling, stumbling because he was going too fast, was too excited. Bits of grass were stuck all over his body, notably his little bum and thighs. 

She watched as Oliver chased Heath around, half heatedly trying to catch him, and laughing loudly when Heath squealed and twisted away. Heath tripped over the attached hose and hit the ground. 

“Oop!” Oliver exclaimed and in one elegant movement, without changing course, reached down and scooped up Heath in one arm, bringing him up and blowing raspberries on his belly.

Felicity loved watching Oliver move, the way his muscles contracted, especially the way they shifted under his scar tissue, a jolted movement of not-quite-yet--okay-now where damaged muscle had to work over time to do something that it should have muscle memory for.

“DA!” Heath giggled, playfully pushing at his Dad’s face.

“Look!” Oliver exclaimed and spun around, “Mom’s home!”

Felicity didn’t know how he’d known she was home. She was still standing inside the house, watching them. She took that as her cue and walked outside.

“Ma!” Heath was already chatting away, “Ma, ‘ook!”

“’Book’? Or ‘Look’?” Felicity asked him.

“’Ook!” Heath exclaimed again, though his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“That’s helpful,” she smiled, and lent in to kiss his cheek.

“Hey,” she smiled at Oliver.

“Hey,” he grinned back.

“Did you have fun today?”

“Did we ever!” 

“YEAH!” Heath giggled, then yawned.

“Let me guess, you guys skipped the nap and had all that fun instead?” Felicity put a hand on her hip, feigning annoyance.

“What?” Oliver scoffed, “No, he had a sleep, didn’t you, little man?”

Heath shook his head, "No 'leep" rubbing his eyes and nudging his forehead into Oliver’s neck.

“Uh huh,” Felicity nodded and took Oliver’s hand, leading her boys back inside.

“Come on, bud, you gotta back me up,” Oliver whispered in response to Heath’s nonsensical, tired babbles.

After giving Heath a small dinner (“You can be the one to get up at one and give the kid some more food,” Felicity had scoffed when Heath refused to eat anymore) they put him to bed and settled on the sofa.

“How’d you go today?” Oliver asked, his head resting on Felicity’s shoulder as they both absent-mindedly watched the news hour.

Felicity took Oliver’s hand and placed it gently on her belly.

Oliver turned his head lazily against her shoulder, his cheek smooshing up as he looked at her.

She smiled at him, a few tears threatening to spill.

“So,” he pushed himself upright and kissed her, breathing into her mouth, “No wine then?”


End file.
